It's really affecting me,
much moreso
than I initially anticipated.

Should've figured.

I'm writing this for you,
dear reader,
and I know you know
that I hate you
more and more
each and every
day.

Sticking a tre-flip off of that three stair behind the bowling alley.

A suicide bomber strapped with C4 running into a crowded building.

Carving up the powder, bombing down the mountain on a freshly waxed snowboard.

Shooting up a movie theater with a 3D printed, fully-automatic 9mm sub machine gun.

Catching a gnarly ten foot wave off the coast of Hawaii and ramping off the lip to catch some air.

Indoctrination of uneducated children and young men to serve as soldiers for an unending holy war.

Landing a backflip on a Haro BMX bike while a crowd of onlookers chants and cheers.

Subversion and subterfuge within a foreign government in order to topple the current president.

Dropping in to a half pipe at the same time as someone else and hitting a high-five in the air.

Starting fires across a city nightscape to purge the neighborhood of vacant buildings and houses.

whatever

Fat people are so gross.

lolol shouldve ******* slept all day lol
*** was i thinking waking up and ****
lol

blahblahblahwordsblahblahrhymesblahblahblah

I don't want to write anymore.
Stop reading this.
Please.

Like what lies between these words,
miles and years isolate us,
empty characters filled with rust
and time filled with beers
drive us further away
each and every day.

And we are forever left longing
for each other's lust,
with bitten lips
and lack of trust.

My girl gets paid
to spend time with this dude
to catch fish all night
and occasionally take a cruise
in his car,
or whatever the **** he drives,
to his other job
where he brews wine
in order to get a scale,
not like the scales on fish,
just a scale that
they can weigh the fish with.

But it's cool man, he's got a girlfriend.
What's her name again?

Girl, you're never more beautiful
than when you're crying.

Twine eyes
wrap me up,
back and forth
is good enough.

Bound to look,
love is tied
with your two spools
of blue twine eyes.

No microphone,
just a stick in the dirt
but that doesn't mean
it's all she's worth.

Writing in circles,
spinning my wheels
in the loose gravel,
in the muddy fields.

Bound to look
into knotted pines,
******* visions
of your blue twines.

Tonight I filled
I filled up
a bottle of Beam,
A coke
and a 16 ounce glass.

I filled it all up
with ****.

Because yes,

I'm that ******* lazy.

Ever have something to say,
something that you REALLY want to say?
Something you're dying to express?

But you just... let it go.
Because you know
you'll never be able
to get it all out.

Now imagine that feeling
for every conversation,
every sentence,
in your entire life.


God I want a whiskey.

Words.
They spell it out for me,
and shine light on my ignorance.

I close my eyes
and see everything,
on the inside of my eyelids.

I have a taste for expensive liquor.
I have a taste for the cheapest swill.
I have a taste for bright summer days.
I have a taste for blizzards.
I have a taste for heartwarming moments.
I have a taste for gore and mutilation.
I have a taste for symphonies.
I have a taste for grindcore.
I have a taste for yoga.
I have a taste for cramps.
I have a taste for regularity.
I have a taste for sudden catastrophies.
I have a taste for Cuban cigars.
I have a taste for Winston lights.
I have a taste for a shirt and tie.
I have a taste for oil stained jeans.
I have a taste for ripe peaches.
I have a taste for bruised apples.
I have a taste for black & white milkshakes.
I have a taste for bitter milk in my cereal.
I have a taste for idealistic love.
I have a taste for ******* and broken hearts.
I have a taste for family gatherings.
I have a taste for abandonment issues.
I have a taste for great parents.
I have a taste for having a dead mother.
I have a taste for a half brother.
I have a taste for being an only child.
I have a taste for the company of friends.
I have a taste for solitude.

"I don't recall that"
I say to her.

She may have mentioned it, sure,
But I can't really even remember what I had for breakfast, let alone something said two years ago...



"You don't listen,"
she tells me.
"You just let the words fall through you."

I smile, I agree.
I'm struggling with figuring out
what kind of reaction I should be having.
Should I be argumentative,
or empathetic?
What does she want me to say?
What does she want to hear?
I say nothing, just stand there and watch.

"It's like you're not even a real person,"
she mutters softly as she turns to walk away.
"I have no idea who you are, after all these years."

Before her hand touches the **** on my front door
she pauses, turns and looks me solemnly
in the eyes, her focus darting back and forth
between each of my irises.
I just look back at her, rather unflinchingly.

"You're a stranger Justin Wampler."

With that, she turns and leaves.

I crack a beer and ponder a bit.
Mostly not really thinking anything, just...
trying to look cool.
I peek over at the mirror on the wall
and think to myself ****,
contemplative's a good look for me.

Oh well.

She sees the moon
while we toss the bags,
while we sit and chat.

She sees the moon
with her head tilted up
to take a swig of beer.

She sees the moon
while I stutter
in the sunlight.

She sees the moon,
and I'm driving
just a little too fast.

She sees the moon
from the open door
of my grandfather's garage.

She sees the moon,
and the moon
sees her.

I only see the moon
glimmering,
reflected in her eyes.

I wonder if she
sees the moon too,
reflected in mine.

The easiest way to quit smoking
is to keep looking forward to
the nicotine headrush you'll get
when you start smoking again.

Every day, every hour and minute
that you manage to hold off
will make that euphoric feeling
hit you that much stronger.

Lips pinched tight around
a cylinder of paper and fiberglass,
the sound of a Bic striking,
dipping the tip into the flame.

An inhale, a deep sigh through smiling teeth.
Slight spinning and just going limp,
letting your head hit the back of the chair.

Eyes closed.

Quitting feels...

...so

****

good.

Who's here
when I'm not?

Can they read this
as I write it,
does it carry across?

There's something
here
with me,
something that's
not me.

Together but not whole,
just a bifurcated hull
held together with flex tape.

We don't sink.

Bear down on what it means
to be in-between
the dawn and the evening
of my life.

Feels like grit in my teeth.
Sand in my sheets.
Burning coals under my feet.
The glint of a knife.

Perpetual intoxication is a peninsula
on which your psyche stands and
mindlessly gazes out at the water to watch
your body slowly drown in the sea.

When the only options are
a sober swim back to the shore
or merely persisting in your mindless gaze,
it's easy to forget that there's a choice at all.

Those little white bottles
to help you smile.

The long drives to work
and home again.

You were beautiful
and miserable then.

It's easy to forget
the miserable part
when looking back.

It's easier to forget
everything about you.

But my dreams
will always remember.

There is nothing I've found
that quite rivals the sound
of a loaded gun.

Love is a dulled knife,
but throughout my life
it's the only tool I've known.

Bled all these words free.
The pen bled out for me,
now an inkless, plastic bone.

With these three simple things
im beginning to bring
meaning into my soul.

I think writing is stupid

Ringing.
Distant at first,
subtle
like a memory.
Then closer,
escalation
of persistence.
Louder now,
piercing
the veil of focus.
Grown deafening,
drowning out
coherent thought.
Ringing, ringing, ringing.

Can't help but wonder why.
The sun floats across
the clear morning sky
like a piece of dust trapped
in the fluid of my eye,
and I just can't help
but wonder why.
The same old song
is stuck in the back of my mind
so I hum while I work
in rhythm and time,
but I just can't help but
wonder why.
I watch myself whisper
little white lies
to keep you safe
and to keep truth disguised,
and I just can't help
but wonder why.

Sometimes it's good to trudge.
Sure, I mean,
my legs are sore at the end of the day but...
Sometimes it's good to trudge.

Death,
like a mother's love,
is forever.

I've grown so
envious
of taller men

because I'm sick and tired
of standing on my tiptoes
to **** in the kitchen sink.

dead things
beautiful, horrid, dead things.

God I want to *******
quit.

I think about it
all the time.

For what?



...This?
I don't think so.

Either pass this mindset.
or die in the cab of a
...

I pray for the pain of
this mindset passing.

This?




Either combustionless
or insane.

Deciding what it is that I want
is more difficult
than just wasting my life
being indecisive.

Waking up thirty years old.

Dying free
of family.

Personally,
I'd rather my shirts
All have a hole
At the nape of the neck
Over having to
Deal with the feeling
Of a tag.

Buy as much paint as you want.
Everyone will don a coat of rust.
It ends up stylish, dark,
red and robust.
But,
buy as much paint as you want.

Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry poetry Poetry Poetry

It's not the sun,
only the light.

It's not the moon,
only the night.

Hey Candy and Chris
can't you see that this
ain't no way to spend the day?
The slots' bright lighting
make the light inside her
fade, fade away.

J-J-J-Jenny and the bets.

Hey! Don't waste it away
the years come and don't stay
when you're spinning that roulette.
Still she sits down beside them
filling up on the tidal
feelings that she gets.

J-J-Jenny

Jenny

Jenny

Jenny Jenny Jenny Jenny

Jenny and the bets.

Our shadows played
on the bedroom wall,
rhythmically knotting together
as sweat began to fall.

Come came,
puddles on skin.
I exclaimed.

Catching my breath,
her head to my chest,
I sighed and I squeezed
just when she said:
"Don't go falling in love with me."

I didn't say much,
maybe just squeezed a bit more,
and she spoke up again:
"Ah... I can't stop you, of course."

She uses her tongue
to write her name
on my skin,
and I can smell autumn
in the firey tapestry
of her auburn hair.

I can taste the moon on her breath,
and it reminds me of home.

Polaris is reflected on her eyes
like slumbering summer nights
spent inside
with a distant chorus of crickets
coming in through my bedroom window.

She's water in the creek
babbling beside my childhood memories
where I would play the days away.


I'm too old to feel so young.
Don't stop.

I'm not generally an angry person,
in fact I find it to be a particularly
foolish emotion.

Sometimes though...
Sometimes my heart pumps lava.
Sometimes my fingernails leave imprints on my palm.
Sometimes my jaw cramps from clenching my teeth.
Sometimes someone parks their car
at the one and only diesel pump,
leaving me to circle the little fuel islands.
Staring out my windshield with the eyes of a shark.
Why? Why must you park at the only diesel pump?
Where? Where the **** is this guy?
How? How do you just ******* walk away?
When? When are they gonna ******* move?
Who? Who the **** does this kind of thing?

Then they come striding out
from the convenience store,
they catch me staring them down,
then I just smile
And wave.

Anger is foolish.

I want to taste the black ink bled
by my ever lonesome and worrying pen.

I want to paint the floors with
my innumerous words for
how I've been doing here.

In this **** hole apartment.

I love my apartment, wait, don't listen to me.
I'm grateful for all these golden opportunities.
Life shone brightly upon my needs.

I want to coat the back of the toilet in ****,
the bathtub in mold and mildew.

I want to rip the curtains to shreds
and ignite them into a funeral pyre.

I'll exhale smoke and smile through the carcinogens.
I'll bleed from my knuckles.
I'll snap every last pen I can find.

I'll snap every last pen.

Life has been good to me,
I'm genuinely happy.


I'm happy

and I'll **** you.
I'll **** me.